


Marry Me a Little

by RockAndAHardPlace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (very slight) dom-sub undertones, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Castiel and Dean Winchester Being Idiots, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel and Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Dean Winchester in Denial, Everyone Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff, Happy Ending, Husbands, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockAndAHardPlace/pseuds/RockAndAHardPlace
Summary: Dean can't stop calling Cas his husband. Sam can't stop laughing.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 35
Kudos: 454





	Marry Me a Little

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SarahBellCastiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahBellCastiel/gifts).



> I started writing this fic about three weeks before the finale aired. The finale, of course, immediately made what I had written not canon-compliant. For the purposes of this fic, just assume the boys are all co-parenting Jack, they live together in the bunker, and Charlie and Mary are alive. 
> 
> Wishing a very Merry Christmas/Happy Holiday to readers, especially to my dear friend SarahBellCastiel! She expressed an interest in reading the story I had started, and I figured fanfic is the best Christmas present. :) 
> 
> *Title for this fic taken from the Sondheim song of the same name in the musical "Company."

The first time it happens, Dean blames it on the case. He’s exhausted, sore, and sleepy; he doesn’t even argue when Sam pulls into a nice bed and breakfast instead of their usual dive motel.

“Two queens, please,” says Dean. 

The nice girl at the desk has cropped green hair and a friendly expression. She glances from Dean to Cas, who has wandered to admire a painting on the other side of the lobby. 

“We’ve got a few spare rooms,” she says, eyes still resting on Cas. “Wouldn’t you and your husband like a separate room?” 

“No, thanks; he doesn’t sleep much,” says Dean.

And he’s so tired that the words barely penetrate his head. He sees the gleeful look on Sam’s face, the look reserved exclusively for Dean’s humiliation, and Dean replays the conversation in his head. 

What the fuck. 

“He’s not my husband!” Dean stammers. “We’re not—I’m not—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says the girl, face falling. She slides them a set of keys. “I didn’t mean to assume. I’m happy to put you and your partner in with your…”

“Brother,” Sam supplies, smirk widening. “Thank you, that would be perfect.”

Cas crosses the lobby towards them, hands in his pockets. “Was there room available?” 

Dean lobs the keys at Sam’s chest. “You two go ahead. I’m not sleepy.” 

He speed-walks out into the parking lot, wrenches open the impala’s door and drives. 

Screw that girl at the motel. Dean is going to have some fun tonight, and forget about C—forget about everything else. 

He screeches to a halt at the first bar he can find. The neon light is forgiving, washing out the bruises and scrapes he accumulated during the hunt. Dean swaggers inside, breathing in the smell of spilt beer and sweat with relief. Oh yeah. He practically grew up at places like this. 

Dean is home. 

(At the thought of home, he resolutely shoves aside mental images of the bunker.) 

He finds a seat at the bar. “I’ll have whatever beer is on special tonight,” he says, and casts a practiced eye across the room. It’s still early, but there are a few promising glances, at any rate. Not that Dean is feeling picky after all this time.

For Dean can’t help but reflect that in fact, it has been a while—been quite a while since he’s hooked up with someone. Longer than he would ever admit to Sam. 

(And that’s strange, isn’t it, because Dean has always sought sex pretty consistently.) 

But in fact it has been years now. There came a day when the hook-ups stopped being fun—after Purgatory, when he got a weird twist in his gut every time he thought about getting a separate motel room and having some fun. 

Dean has a slow sip of beer and takes another look around. There are two hot women playing pool together, then there’s the other bartender, blonde and buxom. Dean decides to try her first. 

In the old days, (hesitant though he is to admit it), Dean would not have stopped with the women. But picking up a dude feels like a line tonight, something unacceptable—and not for the old reasons, either. 

So Dean resolutely does not think about the dark-haired man a few seats down, and instead picks up his drink and slides in front of the bartender. 

She raises an eyebrow, noting his full drink. “Can I help you?” 

Dean throws it back in one fluid motion and slides the glass to her. “You could pour me another whiskey.” 

He sees the moment she thaws a little, eyes raking across him as she reaches for the bottle. “Don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” 

“Nope, just passing through for work.” Dean winks as she hands his drink to him. “Thanks.” 

“My pleasure.” 

She starts to ask about work, and Dean nearly stumbles over the answers he used to give so easily before. He finds he can’t remember the last time he did this. 

But either he’s lucky or it’s like riding a bicycle. She’s laughing at his jokes now, starting to lean a little lower as she reaches for glasses to polish, displaying more curve of breast each time. 

Dean decides it’s time to make his move. “Say—” he begins, but she’s glancing to the side. Dean sees that someone else has sat down, waiting to be served. 

The bartender bites her lip and moves over, mixes a margarita while Dean contemplates trying to pick up one of the girls playing pool after all. 

But the bartender comes back then. “Sorry about that,” she says with a smile. “Hope you weren’t too lonely without me?” 

“And if I was?” 

She smiles coyly. “Then I would want to make it up to you.” 

“Is that so?” Dean grins. “Well then, maybe you could let me know what time your shift ends.”

The bartender bites her lip nice and slow. “I don’t know. I try not to mix work and pleasure. I’ve made that mistake a couple more times than I should have.” 

“What you get up to off duty is your business, isn’t it?” Dean raises his drink, making sure to flex his biceps as he does. Oh yeah. He’s still got it. “I’m not inviting you to the staff room.” 

She giggles. “Well, I suppose you’ve got a point. As long as—you’re not married, are you?” 

And damn him, but Dean’s grin falters. “No,” he says. 

She’s already narrowed her eyes. “You sure?” 

“Positive.” Dean holds up his left hand. “Really, I’m not. I just—earlier someone thought my friend and I were married. That was just on my mind. But I’m single.” 

She sighs, and though she leans in, her tone has shifted. Dean has had too many nights confiding in a friendly bartender, and he recognizes that kind tone. “And this friend—you don’t have feelings for her?” 

“Him, and no, definitely not.” Dean laughs like the whole thing is a joke. Too loud, though. For some reason his hands are sweaty as he lifts the glass to drain it. He’s getting it again, that weird twisting in his stomach. 

The bartender pours him another drink, and Dean doesn’t quite manage to meet her eyes. He’s not even trying to look down her shirt, either—just looking at the scuffed wooden surface of the bar. 

“You sure?” asks the bartender quietly, raising some glasses to polish. 

And the confidence, the old posturing, just fades. He feels the aches from the case, all the bruises and cuts hidden by his jacket. 

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, of course. You know—I think I should head home.” 

“You want me to call you a cab?”

“I’m good, I swear.” Dean sets a few bills down on the bar. “Um—have a good night.” 

“Yeah, you too.” She smiles at him again, the expression warm and gentle. Dean thinks he should be shouting and belligerent, demanding why she would assume—assume all kinds of obviously wrong things about him. 

But the twist in his gut is gone, and in its place is something Dean could almost call relief. 

He picks up an extra large meat lover’s pizza and a large vegetarian pizza on his way back to the motel. He realizes he doesn’t even know which room they’re in, has to stop at the main desk again. The green-haired girl slides him a key and avoids his eyes. 

“Thanks,” Dean mutters, and he slinks out. 

As he opens the door, he hears voices quickly trail off. Cas and Sam were talking about him, it seems, and whatever they were discussing, they’re not sharing it with the class. 

“Hey,” says Dean, setting the pizzas on a table. 

“Hello, Dean,” says Cas.

“Where did you run off to?” Sam bitches. 

“Sorry Sammy, did you have big plans? Did I forget we were making friendship bracelets tonight and watching rom-coms?” 

“I thought you liked rom-coms,” says Cas. 

“What?” Dean exclaims, nearly dropping a slice of pizza. “Why the hell would you think that?” 

“We share a Netflix account,” Cas points out. “There are several rom-coms in your ‘watch it again’ list.” 

“Maybe I clicked on one or two by accident.” 

“There were also several saved to your ‘For later’ list.” 

Sam cackles. “Busted, dude. Do you like friendship bracelets as well, then?”

“You know what? Last time I get pizza for you jerks.” Dean glares at them. 

“What kind of pizza?” Cas looks hopefully at the plate in Dean’s hands. 

“Meat lover’s,” Dean admits, and he hands over the plate that he had, in all honesty, prepared for Cas all along. 

Cas’s features soften just a touch. “Thank you, Dean.”

Still chuckling, Sam heads into the bathroom. Dean picks up the pizza box and places it on the bed, then slumps down next to Cas. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Watching television,” admits Cas. “And I called Jack earlier.” 

Dean thinks about himself running off, throwing back whiskies, hitting on bartenders, and is glad their s—glad Jack isn’t working the case with them. 

“How is he?” 

“He said he misses us.” Cas shrugs down at the duvet. 

“Hey, we’ll be home soon,” says Dean quickly. “You’ll see him tomorrow.” 

Cas smiles at him, and Dean wants to enjoy it, but he can’t quite. He has to say it. “Sorry I left,” he mutters. 

Saying it is like a weight off his chest. 

“Did you have fun?” Cas asks quietly. 

“No,” says Dean, easy and without thinking. For some reason he’s blushing.

He remembers the green-haired girl from the motel, wonders what she would say if she saw him huddled up next to Cas in the same bed, one box of pizza between them. Would the word ‘husband’ cross her mind again? 

Why is he thinking of this? Why should it matter? 

Sitting here, it’s too much, it’s not enough. His arm bounces on the bed until Cas reaches out to rest a palm against it. Then Dean goes still, has to take a deep breath before he dares meet Cas’s eyes. 

“I may have suspected Sam would find your movie preferences funny,” Cas admits with a sheepish smile. 

Dean barks out a laugh. “Well played, Cas. Well played.” 

“Would you like to watch a movie now?” 

“As long as it involves violence and muscle cars,” says Dean. 

Because he’s a smartass, Cas puts on ‘Notting Hill.’ He slides a little closer to Dean. Their elbows are almost touching. 

Dean does not enjoy it at all. The movie or the—the proximity to Cas. 

He eats too much pizza. He accidentally laughs at the funny parts. 

He falls asleep next to Cas as the credits roll. 

#

The next time is a particularly bad case in New York. 

The case itself is straightforward enough: a prominent tailor was murdered, with ghostly activity picking up on the scanners. So they try to visit the tailor’s shop, but the place is swarming with cops and they have to rethink the usual FBI strategy. 

Which is when Sam gets the bright idea of buying a suit. 

Stolen credit card in hand, they make an appointment. The junior tailor casts disapproving eyes over all their suits, but his soul might just break a little when he looks at Cas in Jimmy Novak’s scruffy suit. 

“I take it the appointment was for you?” he asks, already getting out his tape measure. 

Cas throws a bewildered look at Dean, who winks at him. “That’s right,” he says, clapping the angel on the shoulder. “Can’t have him embarrassing me.” 

Cas’s resulting authoritative glare does not make Dean shiver. Not even a little. 

But the joke is on him, because the tailor seems to take this comment to mean Dean is the one in charge, and everything must meet with his approval. While Sam casually examines pictures on the walls and manages to question the two assistants, Cas is paraded before Dean in an endless array of suits. Pinstriped like a fifties star, sharp black, grey with a silk tie that brings out his eyes… 

Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Uh, I think the black one,” he chokes out. “That is, if you like it, Cas. It’s like your old one.” 

The tailor’s eyes stab at him. “Not at all like the old suit! This is much more flattering. Sir, would you turn?” he adds to Cas, who obliges. “You see? Much better fitted.”

_Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush. _Dean crosses his legs and clears his throat. “Um, yeah. Sorry.”__

____

____

Cas puts his hands in the pockets and smirks, clearly enjoying as Dean gets lectured. “You’re sure you can tell the difference, Dean?” 

Dean registers that he should be pissed off, but the deep rumble and the confidence have scrambled his brain. “Yup. You look h—good!”

Jesus, he nearly said ‘hot.’ Right in front of Cas and Sam and some random strangers. The blush burns up his cheeks like a beacon. 

Cas eyes Dean for a moment then nods to the tailor. “We’ll take it.” 

As Cas gets changed, Dean fishes the stolen credit card from his pocket and goes to pay. 

Apparently his praise has smoothed things over, for the tailor smiles at him. “Difficult to get your husband dressed up?” 

Dean reflects on all the years Cas has worn the exact same suit, day and night. “You have no idea,” he says, then the bottom of his stomach drops out.

“My husband was the same way before I met him,” says the tailor, oblivious, as he charges Dean a king’s freaking ransom. “He still tried to wear a t-shirt to a fancy restaurant the other day. Oh well, you need to pick your battles, right?” And he smiles at Dean as he hands him the receipt. 

It’s the smile that does him in. Gentle, commiserating, with the easy understanding that they’re both—well. Both _the same way _, and both perfectly comfortable with it.__

____

____

“Dean.” Cas’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he looks. The fear drops away for a moment, because all he can think about is Cas. 

Dean turns to look at him. 

“Thank you for the suit,” says Cas, and he smiles. 

“Yeah,” Dean stammers. “Right, yeah. Um. No problem.” 

Cas’s hand is still on him. Dean forgets why he was upset or what he was going to say to correct the tailor. He pays, his mind still scrambled from that gentle touch. 

#

And after that, Dean can’t stop doing it. 

At the local grocery store, the butcher catches his eye and waves him down. “Got a nice sirloin here,” she says. “Your husband would love it.” 

Without even thinking, Dean’s asked her to wrap up four steaks. It’s only in the checkout line that the words really register, but it’s too late to go back and argue. Mortified, he pays for the groceries and goes home. 

(To his eternal frustration, Cas _does _love the steak, and between his praise and making the mistake yet again, Dean sits through dinner red-faced.)__

____

____

Then there’s the local gas store attendant who comments Dean should get his husband to upgrade to a nice classic car like the impala—“I’ve tried to tell him, but he loves that damn thing,” says Dean, before freezing up. 

At the convenience store, the middle-aged lady at the checkout counter gives him a disappointed look when she sees the copies of Busty Asian Beauties he’s slapped down on the counter. 

“Not that it’s any of my business,” she says, beginning to ring him through, “But don’t you think your husband would be hurt if he knew you were buying those?” 

It’s not just the local places, either. It starts happening when they’re out hunting, when they’re meeting new people. 

They’re in Minnesota investigating a string of suspicious deaths. Whoever has been killing people leaves a distinctive bouquet of flowers on the corpses. 

They’re midway through interviewing the local florist when Cas’s phone rings, interrupting the conversation. 

“It’s Jack,” he tells Dean. “I’d better take this. Last time I ignored him, he sulked for a week.” 

The florist they were interviewing, who has been surly the whole conversation, thaws a little. “Teenagers?” she says. 

“Something like that,” says Dean, smiling after Cas. 

“So back to the woman who bought the flowers from you,” says Sam. “The woman with the weird skin condition. Can you describe the flower arrangement she bought?” 

The florist raises an eyebrow. “The FBI want to know about roses?” 

“It’s very important,” Sam presses, flashing his most winning smile. 

The florist shrugs and reaches into the coolers behind her, starts withdrawing handfuls of roses and lilies and other colourful blossom. “I’ll do you one better,” she says. “Her instructions were very specific.

“Now Agent—Richards, was it?” 

Dean feels his head snap forward. He hadn’t even realized he was still looking out the window, wondering what Jack was saying that had Cas smiling like that. 

“Yeah. Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t dare turn his head even a couple inches—knows he’ll see Sammy giving his most obnoxious smirk. 

“What kind of flowers did you two have for your wedding?” she asks, nodding at Dean and Cas. 

“Oh, we didn’t have a ceremony,” Dean says. An instant later, the embarrassment crashes into him like a freight train. 

“Really?” The florist shakes her head. “You should take more time for yourselves, you know.” 

There’s something about her manner—brisk and matter-of-fact—that makes it impossible to hedge or argue or explain. Dean’s stuck there with his hands in his pockets, his face scarlet, while the florist spends the next ten minutes telling Dean how important these gestures are in a marriage. 

“I mean, when was the last time you bought him flowers?” she demands. 

Dean reflects on a red rose, dropping Cas off on a date with someone else, and his stomach turns. He drops his eyes. 

“Well, it’s never too late to learn,” the florist says, and the next thing he knows, she’s shoving the massive bouquet in his face. “Here. That’ll be $120.00.” 

Dean stares. “How much?” 

“When was the last time you remembered his birthday?” she counters. 

Between trying to calculate Cas’s age and flinching away from the florist’s sardonic raised eyebrow, Dean somehow finds himself fishing his credit card out of his pocket. 

_It’s for the case _, he tells himself firmly. _He's following a lead.___

_____ _

_____ _

And then he runs away—rather, gallantly exits—the flower shop, bouquet raised to shield him from Sam’s grin. 

“Sam, Dean,” says Cas, tucking his phone away. “I have assisted Jack with making popcorn. It took several attempts, but the last bag barely burned. Also, Jack has asked us to pick up more popcorn on our way home.” 

Something goes warm and stupid in Dean’s head, something that hears Cas so casually refer to the bunker as “home.” 

“Good,” Dean says. “Okay. Here, take these.” And he shoves the bouquet into Cas’s arms then hurries to unlock the impala. 

“Oh,” says Cas. “Are they for the case?” 

“Well, we didn’t need a bouquet of our own, but Dean couldn’t leave without them.” From the sound of his voice, Sam is barely holding back hysterics. 

Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the wheel, the road. He hears Sam and Cas get in, and he gets the car in gear. 

Then Cas says quietly from the back seat, “Dean, are these for me?” 

And Dean makes the stupid, stupid mistake of looking up. 

He locks eyes with Cas in the rearview mirror, sees that piercing blue gaze from over an armful of red roses and fragrant pink blooms. 

Cas gives the tiniest smile. He appears to be holding his breath. 

Without thinking, Dean nods. 

And the smile gets so big and bright that it cuts right through him. 

“Thank you, Dean,” says Cas. 

Jaw clenched, Dean nods again. There’s adrenaline surging through every inch of him, and he feels this terrible premonition that if he lets himself open his mouth, he’ll say something terrifying and irrevocable. 

But he’s still looking at Cas, trying not to smile himself, as he pulls away from the curb. 

“Hey, watch out!” Sam shouts, and Dean swerves out of another vehicle’s path. “You need me to drive?” Sam adds once he’s caught his breath. 

Dean attempts to drown out the smugness with AC/DC, but to no avail. 

#

He tries to forget about it, but Cas digs up a vase from the depths of the bunker and proudly displays the flowers on the map room table. Every morning as he enters the room, Cas brushes a hand over the petals, then smiles to himself and goes to make coffee. 

The damn flowers stare Dean down every meal, catch his eye every time he passes through the room. 

“Hey, where did these flowers come from?” Jack asks over dinner, and Dean nearly chokes on his pasta. 

Cas’s hand thumps Dean on the back. But even when Dean gasps in a breath, the hand rests there for a moment, giving two gentle pats, before withdrawing. Dean feels the ghost of those touches on him still, like more handprints seared into his skin. 

“Dean bought them for me,” says Cas calmly. 

Jack looks at Dean. “That’s new,” he says. “Why do you never buy flowers for Sam?” 

Sam bursts out laughing. “Good question, Jack. Why did you just buy flowers for Cas, Dean?” 

Dean’s face burns. “You don’t deserve flowers, bitch,” he mutters. “Cas, pass me the—”

Cas has already extended the basket of garlic bread. 

“Thanks,” says Dean. He takes a gigantic bite and makes sure to grin at Sam as he chews. 

“Gross,” Sam snaps, rolling his eye. 

“You’re going to teach Jack bad manners, Dean,” Cas murmurs. 

Dean swallows. “Sorry.” 

Sam smirks at him across the table. “Yeah, Dean. Mind your manners.” 

“Piss off, Sammy.” Dean checks for a napkin, realizes he doesn’t have one, and moves to get up. 

“Here.” Cas has a spare for him. He smiles when Dean takes it. Their fingers touch, and for a moment Dean forgets to breathe. 

Then Cas and Jack start debating about whether Jack can get his driver’s license, and Dean sits back. There’s something weird—a feeling, tears, laughter—caught in his chest. A part of him that looks at this domesticity and asks, is this what it would be like? How much is missing except the ring on your finger? 

Dean stands, faster than he intended to. His chair screeches on the floor and everyone stops, looks at him. 

He had planned to grab a tumbler and some whiskey, only with Cas’s eyes on him, Dean realizes suddenly that he hasn’t had anything more than a couple beers in weeks. 

Dean thinks again of Cas smirking at him in the suit, Cas smiling over the armful of flowers. 

He clears his throat. “I’m, uh—going to start on the dishes.”

“Are you alright?” Cas asks. 

Dean’s heart does _not _flutter. He is an adult and a badass. “I’m good, Cas.” The words come out weird, too warm and too soft.__

____

____

But then Cas smiles at him, dammit, that warm and wide smile, and Dean can’t help it. His heart flutters, goddammit. His face heats up. 

“Thank you for dinner,” said Cas. 

“Thanks, D-Dean,” Jack pipes in. And it’s crazy, but for a moment, Dean could have sworn Jack nearly called him ‘Dad.’ 

He waves them off and rushes into the kitchen before he can embarrass himself more. 

A few minutes pass before he hears footsteps. Dean recognizes them, of course. 

“Sammy,” he says. “Did you need help braiding your hair?” 

The resulting eyeroll is almost audible. “I came to help with the dishes, actually.” 

Dean eyes him suspiciously. “You sure that’s why you’re here?” 

“Why else?” Sam’s innocent expression is not fooling anyone, included Sam. 

“Braiding your hair, like I said.” 

Sam rolls his eyes again and grabs a plate. “Careful. You don’t want to get in trouble again.”

Dean stiffens. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing.” Sam’s shit-eating grin says otherwise. “Just that you’re whipped.”

Time to misdirect. “I haven’t been whipped since that hot waitress from Colorado. You remember? The one with the really long nails—”

“Oh my god, stop talking!” Sam’s scandalized face is priceless. If not for the soapy rubber gloves he’s wearing, Dean would snap a photo. 

“You started it, bitch.” Dean rinses another dish. Only one more and then he’s done. 

But of course, Sam doesn’t let him off the hook that easily. 

“Seriously though man, the flowers were a nice gesture.” Sam’s mouth twitches a little. “And the steaks. And the suit.” 

“Two of those were for a case, Sammy. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Dammit, there’s a stubborn bit of casserole stuck to this dish. He can’t seem to scrape it off. 

“All I’m saying is the gestures are nice. But talking can be good, too.” 

“What’s there to talk about?” Dean stares him down. 

And for a moment he thinks Sam is going to back off. He thinks this will be another time they almost talked about this but didn’t quite, another time he gets to maintain plausible deniability. 

But not anymore. 

“Look man,” says Sam. “I don’t want to be out of line here. But has it occurred to you that maybe the reason you keep calling him your husband is that he’s, you know, your husband?” 

Dean’s heart starts pounding. “That’s stupid,” he says. “Cas doesn’t feel…” The words taper off faced with Sam’s impressive bitch-face. “…that way,” Dean finishes, with a lack of sincerity which a child could see through.

“Uh-huh,” says Sam, two syllables conveying about ten years’ worth of scorn. “And he’s told you that?” 

Dean redirects his gaze to the wall. He mutters into his beer. 

“Sorry, what was that?” He can hear the smirk in Sam’s voice. 

“He hasn’t—technically said he _doesn’t _… feel that way,” Dean mumbles. “But he hasn’t said he _does _feel that—”____

_____ _

_____ _

“He said he loves you. When he thought he was dying.” 

“He said he loves all of us.” 

“After he said he loves you,” Sam points out. 

“He—he didn’t mean it like that.” Dean feels the blush burning up his face. “Sammy, drop it.” 

“Fine.” Sam throws up his hands. “But think about it. That’s all I’m asking for.”

And Sam leaves the kitchen at last. 

A few seconds later, the bit of casserole comes off the dish. 

“Seriously?” Dean mutters, glaring at it. “Now you cooperate?” 

He steps back into the map room and once again, his eyes fall on the stupid flowers. They haven’t even wilted at the edges, despite almost two weeks passing. Aren’t flowers supposed to get tired after this much time? 

Then Dean remembers how Cas touches the flowers every morning, eyes gentle and focused, and he realizes. 

_He’s using his grace to make the flowers last longer._

____

____

Somehow, this makes Dean need to sit down. 

And he’s weak, so weak, can’t help the feelings that fizz through his veins. He wants to get up and sing some Zeppelin, or blaze down the highway in Baby, only he can’t seem to move. 

That’s when he imagines it, really imagines it: what a wedding would have looked like. 

He tries to remind himself how ludicrous the whole idea is, the mental picture of him in a nice suit, Sam crying as he walks Dean down the aisle—wait, _why is Dean the girl in this scenario?_

____

____

Ridiculous. He’s not the marrying type. Dean Winchester, notorious ladies’ man, settle down? Dean Winchester buy into all the crap that goes along with marriage? A tiered cake, polished silverware, starched tablecloths—none of that is him.

But then Dean asks himself what he would have picked, and the mental image shifts. He’s standing in a field outside the bunker. Charlie, Rowena, Jack, Mom, and Sammy are all there. The women are laughing, Jack is bemused but happy. (Sam is still crying in this fantasy.) Dean pictures himself wearing something simple this time, just slacks and a nice blue buttondown that matches Cas’s eyes. The angel stands in front of him, holding his hand. Dean imagines the cool metal band that Cas slides onto his finger. Cas smiles and reaches up to cup his face, whispers that he’s happy, that he loves Dean, that he’s staying—

“That’s enough,” Dean mutters to himself. “That’s enough, it’s not real.” With a start, he realizes that his face is wet. 

He’s not the marrying type. He’s not in love with—(his stomach does a traitorous flip)—Cas isn’t in love with him. No matter what gigantic nerds like Sam think. 

Dean scrubs at his eyes and marches himself back to his room. He resolutely takes the long way so he doesn’t pass by Cas’s door. 

There’s just enough reckless energy fizzing through him that Dean might run the risk of knocking, of talking, of telling Cas everything. 

#

It doesn’t matter that Dean has decided to be disciplined, because even in the bunker he can’t escape. Jack goes on a movie kick, and it’s like every damn film he picks has to feature a wedding at the end. Movie night becomes a special form of torture for Dean, as he sits on the couch next to Cas and tries to think about cars and monsters every time a romantic scene comes on. 

And dammit, but Sam’s words keep playing in his head. Dean will always claim Sam is wrong on pure principle, but he has to admit, his brother sometimes is maybe not a complete idiot. 

“Here you go, Dean.” 

Dean’s head snaps up just in time to see Cas set a box of Chinese food in front of him. 

“Are you guys back already?” he blurts. 

“Yes.” Cas tilts his head. “We have been gone for half an hour. Were you sitting here the whole time?” 

Dean turns bright red. He’s been sitting at the table, mooning over Cas, staring at the damn flowers for half an hour. 

He shoves a mouthful of noodles into his mouth to avoid talking, and Cas shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. 

Sam and Jack plop into seats next to them, and Dean gives a start. “What are you doing?” he asks without thinking. 

“Uh, eating dinner, same as always,” says Sam. Then he sees the look on Dean’s face and leans in to whisper. 

“You need to talk to your husband?” 

“Yeah,” says Dean without thinking, then he stiffens. “Dammit, Sammy!” 

Sam is already chortling into his box of stir-fried rabbit food. 

“Is everything alright?” asks Cas. 

“Peachy,” says Sam. “But you know, I feel like a movie. Jack, you up for more Disney?” 

Jack bounds out of his chair with a toddler’s enthusiasm—and shit, Dean keeps forgetting he technically is a toddler. 

“Dean, Cas, would you like to join us?” he asks. 

And Dean’s pulse pounds; Cas can’t leave yet, he just can’t, not until Dean knows what the hell is going on. 

“No!” he blurts, too loud and too vehement, and everyone turns to stare at him. 

“…Cas needs to help me with the dishes,” Dean mumbles. 

“But we got takeout,” says Cas, tilting his head. 

That stupid red flush starts creeping into Dean’s cheeks again. Across the table, Sam’s eyes light up with that younger brother, Dean-is-embarrassing-himself sort of glee. 

“We, uh, have to wash the…” Dean’s eyes slide from the disposable bamboo chopsticks to the plastic spoons they used to scoop up rice. “…the cups,” he finishes. 

“Jack is the only one with a cup,” Sam points out, because he’s an asshole who is begging for itching powder in his underpants. “The rest of us are having beers.” 

Cas watches Dean for a moment. What is he thinking? Dean stares into his eyes for a moment, trying to work it out. 

“Um, guys?” asks Sam. 

“What?” Dean looks up. Sam and Jack are both giving them weird looks, which makes no sense. He and Cas just briefly glanced at each other for a couple seconds. 

“Dean and I will do the dishes,” says Cas. “Enjoy your movie.” 

“Right,” says Sam, but for some reason he suddenly seems eager to leave. “Jack, let’s go.” 

Cas waits until their footsteps have retreated before he turns to Dean. “I believe they are, as the saying goes, ‘none the wiser.’ What did you wish to discuss covertly with me?” 

Dean flushes still brighter. “Nothing,” he says. 

Cas tilts his head. “Dean Winchester, you are not being truthful.” 

Dean turns back to his box of beef lo mein. “Shit, Cas, I don’t know. Can’t a guy just spend some time with his best friend?” 

The phrase slips out before he can think about it, and then Dean winces. 

“Best friend,” says Cas quietly. “Is that what you would call me, then?” 

Dean looks up, tongue-tied. All the other incidents flash before his eyes, all the times he implied Cas was something far more than that, or went along with others misinterpreting things. 

_Has it ever occurred to you that the reason you keep calling him your husband is that he’s, you know, your husband?_

____

____

It didn’t seem so crazy when they shared pizza and fell asleep together. 

But he’s reading into things, believing what he wants to instead of what is true. Cas wouldn’t feel that way. No way in hell Dean deserves that. 

He looks up to say something, the usual macho nonsense—and his eyes fall on the flowers. 

Three weeks and counting. 

“I don’t know,” Dean whispers. He feels like something is caught at the back of his throat—wait, shit. That’s not a feeling, that’s a piece of beef. 

Dean croaks for breath, and Cas reaches up a gentle hand to tap him on the back. The beef comes loose and Dean gasps in big lungfulls of air. 

“Sorry,” he pants. “Sorry, I—”

Cas’s hand wraps around his face and gently tilts it until Dean is looking him in the eye. 

“Dean,” the angel says quietly. “I have something to confess.” 

Dean freezes. Part of him screams that this is it, that Cas is leaving him. But another, small voice in his head suggests this might be something else, something Dean hasn’t even let himself hope for. 

But he’s wrong on both counts. 

“Dean, with my powers restored, my sense of hearing is better than that of most humans. Do you remember a few months ago when we stopped at the bed and breakfast? The one with the concierge with green hair?” 

Dean resist the urge to whimper, because he is a grown-ass man. 

“And the tailor who sold you my new suit? Or the florist who convinced you to buy me flowers? Dean, I confess I heard all those conversations. I kept waiting for you to get angry, but you didn’t. And you stopped denying it.” 

Cas hesitates, then adds. “And a few days ago… I don’t believe you intended to pray, exactly. But you imagined… you imagined us,” he whispers. “Us getting married.”

Dean blanches. Vaguely, he wonders why his hand feels numb, then he looks down and realizes he has his beer bottle in a death grip. 

Cas looks down and gently eases his fingers open, slides the bottle onto the table. 

And he takes Dean’s open hand. 

“I know that was something private,” he says quietly. “I apologize. I did not mean to intrude on your personal thoughts. But for what it is worth, I thought it was lovely—what you pictured. I loved it. I want that. If that’s what you want, I want it, too.”

The emotions are locked tight in Dean’s throat. Every inch of him tense and tight, and he can’t reach for Cas, no matter how much he wants to. 

The angel smiles and brushes his thumb over Dean’s cheek. 

And just like that, Dean melts into him. He clutches at Cas, not daring to trust anything that feels this good. 

This close, he can feel Cas’s beating heart, can smell him, can feel the edges of the trench coat draping around his back. One of Cas’s hands strokes over his back, the other rising to pet gently at his hair. It’s so much contact. For some reason, it makes him hold Cas even tighter. Dean is mortified by the sound he’s suppressing, the groan or sob that’s leaking past his lips. 

But Cas has him. “It’s alright, Dean,” he whispers. 

Dean manages to clear his throat, draws back. He goes to say something, something dry or self-deprecating or sarcastic—and then he locks eyes with Cas and the words go away. 

“Dean,” says Cas quietly. “You make me so happy. I love you. If you’ll have me, I’m staying.” 

Dean gasps, and this time the tears do come. He registers that those are the words he imagined, the words he wanted from Cas but couldn’t ask for. 

“I love you,” Dean mutters, so quiet and faint he can’t even hear himself say it.

But Cas has better hearing. He beams at Dean and leans down to kiss him. 

When Cas draws back again, Dean is already whining in protest, trying to pull Cas back down. The angel laughs softly. 

“The next time someone calls you my husband,” says Cas, hands still cupping Dean’s face, “I’m going to agree with them.” 

Dean beams right back at him. “Deal,” he says, and at last Cas kisses him again. 

#

They have the ceremony in the woods. Cas wears his fancy suit. Dean wears a blue buttondown that matches Cas’s eyes. 

And Sam cries more than the rest of them combined.


End file.
